Grief
by Caeli Quaedem
Summary: Because there's that period between grieving and acceptance, and denial isn't an option. Rose's days aboard Carpathia was nothing short of tragic. Oneshot.


**A/N: Hi! Um, okay this is my first Titanic fic so any form of feedback would be very much appreciated. Yeah, enjoy! Oh, and if there's any run-on sentences in there, keep in mind that they're intentional, thanks! Rated T for a single cuss word.**

* * *

You didn't _want_ to leave him there, didn't want to release his hand, but when you're freezing and floating on a door in the middle of the North Atlantic and your only hope of survival is the lifeboat that's already passing you by, you realize that you have no choice.

So you do.

You let him go and turn away as he sinks into the cruel water and you swim and you swim and you swim and you take that whistle and you blow and you blow until the little air you have left in your lungs expire.

The light from the boat shines on your face and you almost flinch, as it illuminates all the pale, dead bodies around you. But you feel nothing, nothing but the cold and numbness and loss.

_He's gone._

You grab the arm offered to you and climb into the boat and somebody wraps you in a blanket and gives you a warm cup of chocolate and has you sit on the side and you don't care, don't care, _don't care_. Your body's cold and your face is even paler than usual and you're shivering. Everything's segmented and your vision is blurry and you can't make sense of anything. It's as if the cold has wrapped around your mind like a vice. The only thing vivid and solid that you can hold onto is Jack's smiling face in the forefront of your mind, every single feature so real- those adorable blond locks, those brilliant blue eyes, his tanned skin, his sharp cheekbones, and that lopsided grin that made your heart melt that first time, and then…the sun comes up.

It's morning again. And you're numb.

The men in the boat row and row and row and you feel nothing but the gentle rocking of the boat against the waves and hear nothing but the oppressive silence that seems to have enveloped the sea and you can think of nothing except for the fact that you're alive but you shouldn't be because _fuck it, Jack isn't here!_

You gain sight of Carpathia, the rescue ship, and the men row and row and row with renewed vigor. Five more survivors are in the ship with you and vaguely, you wonder if they also lost someone, if they can also feel the stoic chill that's wrapped around you, inside and out.

They lift the lifeboat into the ship and you're the last to step out. An officer wraps another blanket around you until your whole body is cocooned with only your head poking out. They refill your mug and send you away.

You walk towards the third-class part of the ship, with mechanical, controlled steps, as if you don't know where you're going and your body's doing all the work for you. Then you realize that it is.

You sit down near the railing, alone and look over to the sea. There are no icebergs here, only calm, flat water reflecting the sunrise. A dolphin jumps out of the water, produces a keen noise, and drops back down in a graceful arc. He does it again and again, joined by a few more, until they retire entirely downward.

You envy them irrationally, seeing them in a pack like that, jumping and twirling in the water that took Jack and majority of the passengers of Titanic away from this world. Why are they having fun when more than a thousand people died? It's not fair! Why aren't they grieving like she and everyone else were? Why are they born with the ability to swim while all the bodies that sunk into the depths last night are dead?

You know it's not logical, getting angry at a dolphin because they're water creatures, but you're grateful, because those little creatures have elicited an emotion out of you.

All around you, people are congregating in groups, mourning and grieving and sitting still in denial and begging the officers that there might be some sort of mistake, this person and that person is still alive. They pass around warm drinks and bowls of broth, but you ignore them. Your stomach's queasy but you're not hungry and you know why.

A man announces that you're going to reach New York in a couple of days at the latest, and directs you all to a large room below deck, where beds and tables and chairs were spread out.

You take a bed near a window and climb under the covers silently, placing the mug on a side table and close your eyes, trying to drown out the wails and sobs of despair and whispers of reassurance. The bed is cold and you wish that Jack was there to hold you and comfort you and whispers words of reassurance in _your_ ears, but he isn't. He isn't here, he never will be and you know it's all your fault.

Maybe if you hadn't believed Cal about Jack stealing that silly necklace, or if you hadn't jumped off that first lifeboat, or if you let him stay on the door, then maybe…

Silent tears fall down your face and you don't wipe them away. You feel as if every tear you shed is a tribute to all those who died… to Jack. You eventually fall asleep, your cheeks damp and eyes red, but the horrors just won't leave you alone.

* * *

Breaking Jack's handcuffs with that axe… Running away from Cal and Lovejoy… Jack punching Lovejoy in the face… Mr. Andrews giving you his lifebelt… The ship tilting… Water rushing in… Almost getting locked in… That little boy, all alone… Not enough lifeboats… More water… Helping the third-class passengers break out… The ship breaking in two… Running to the bow, hanging on tightly… Jumping into the water… Finding Jack and crying in relief… The accursed door… Jack's final words… Letting go…

They all mix around your head as you twist and turn on the bed, more and more tears spilling over and you see it all in startlingly vivid clarity and you just can't take it anymore. You want to pull him back, deny that he's dead, feel his arms around you, hear him whisper that it's all just a bad dream and that you need to wake up now…

But you can't. Because he's dead.

You sit up in bed suddenly and try to gasp in as much air into your lungs as possible. You reach for the mug and gulp in the now-cold cacao. You stand up and abandon the cocoon of blankets on the bed, but reach to tighten the coat around your body. You walk up to the center table where a woman was serving tea, and replace your mug with a warm cup.

You sit down on a table and try to placate your rapid heartbeat, clinging to the warmth of the cup to stop the shaking in your hands. You take a sip and close your eyes, placing your forehead against the cool, clean surface of the table. Letting go of the cup, your hands clench into fists and you bite down on your lip until it draws blood.

He's gone. _He's gone._ He's gone. _He's gone._ **He's gone.**

Something inside of you breaks and your upper body collapses on the table, sending the teacup smashing to the floor. You shake and your eyes overflow with tears. You run your fingers harshly through your matted hair and pull, tears continuously streaming down your face. Muffling a scream to your sleeves and kicking your shoes off, you throw it as far as you could and send it crashing to the opposite wall.

Several people turn to you in shock and then sympathy, most just in the same state as you are in. A young girl, probably around six, picked up the shoe and gave it back to you, a sweet smile on her face. "I think this is yours, Miss. It's a pretty shoe, you shouldn't throw it away."

You reach for the shoe on the girl's outstretched hand and give her a wobbly smile. She thrusts the shoe deeper into your hand and tucks her hands behind her back.

"Aren't you going to put it back on?"

Shakily, you fit your foot back into the shoe and give the girl another smile. Beaming up at you, she skips back to her mother and sits herself on her lap. You notice that the mother was all alone on a table, and also give her a shaky smile. She nods understandingly at you before tending back to her daughter.

You stand up and glance sheepishly at the people who had turned their attention to you, but they look away once they saw you standing. You climb back out the deck and find a place where you can watch the sea quietly. Somewhere, out there, Jack's body lays peacefully among the ruins of the Ship of the Dreams.

You let out a strangled noise that's a cross between a gasp and a sob at that realization and the dam breaks once more. You didn't eat lunch that day.

And why should you? How can anyone think of something so trivial as food at a time like this? Jack, your sweet, caring, passionate, excitable Jack- is gone. Why hasn't the world stopped spinning? Why is the sun still shining? Everything should be black and white now. It wasn't fair! How can you go on without him? How can you live your dreams knowing Jack isn't there to live it with you? How can you _ever_ be happy knowing you can't share that happiness with him?

_How?_

* * *

You see your mother and Cal that day, recovering in the first-class deck, together with the other first-class survivors. You pay them no mind. If there's one good thing about the sinking of the Titanic, it's that you're finally free from your engagement with Cal and Ruth's 'expectations' of you. It's the one thing Jack would've wanted- for you to live your own life, to break free from the clutches of society and let your spirit roam uninhibited.

But Jack isn't here, and no one's to tell you you're not allowed to grieve. So you do.

Before you go to sleep that night, you look at your hands- your small, warm, _alive_ hands- and remember the time when Jack held them in his, and suddenly, you can feel his hands as if it was there, rough yet gentle, big and warm, intertwined with yours. A gentle breeze flows through your bed, even though the windows are closed to keep the water in.

You smile- a real, genuine smile- because you know, you can _feel_, that Jack never truly let go.

* * *

At midday the next day, Carpathia docks at a New York harbor, and at your place, you can see Lady Liberty smiling wanly down at you. You have an irresistible urge to smile back at her, so you do. Because she's Lady Liberty, and she represents everything that you came here for, represents the one thing that Jack was able to give you even from the afterlife- freedom.

So when the survivor registry officer who you've been avoiding since yesterday comes and asks you what your name was, you answer him confidently. Because you know that you aren't Rose Dewitt-Bukater anymore.

You're Rose Dawson, you're free, and you will never let go.

* * *

**I like line breaks. They're really cool and most of them aren't even necessary with this piece of work, but ehhhh. Please review!**


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